visiting myself in hospital - {garrett/quentin}

[rook]

quentin peters

my parents wonder what went wrong with me
life's in tatters but still they fail to see
i'm dissected every day at school
i'm bullied because i act so weird
all my life i'm held in low esteem
i take refuge in my video games
i fantasize that i'm a warrior
boundaries of fiction are getting blurried

I hate Hospitals. Not because of the dying and the suffering, but because they are so clean that nearly all smells have been erased from the walls and tiling. The hallways are void of anything except the cleansing agent's potent and alkaline stench. I find that there's something unsettling about it. There is so much blood and disease in this building, and yet I can't smell the usual zing of iron or the foul rot of decay that often accompanies the dying and the dead. It's all so faux and pulled away that I start to see suffering in a new way, a more precise and monitored way. It's like a depressing painting, open for interpretation but you can't change it. You just have to look at it. You just have to watch it deteriorate. It's no wonder they feed patients so little here - I can't imagine having an appetite in a place like this.

The days are still long for me. Each hour is a difficult drag through various stomach issues, headaches, and strong cravings that lure my eyes towards any flat-top silver surface in search of a needle. On top of that, I've got the huge pile of conflicted thoughts that I'm trying to sort through. Responsibility and reliability are the ones I've convinced myself to focus on, and even though I'm working hard to get better for Lana's sake, I'm never anything more than half motivated. I suppose half motivated is better than being close-to-dead on my laminate kitchen flooring, bleeding and reaching for a syringe or a pack of pills. What a difference a month makes, I guess.

When Ratts told me Garrett had been shot, I feared the worse, and almost immediately I started to drift into the soft abyss again. I couldn't handle the thought of losing yet another blood-brother, not least because this was the one I mistreated and took for granted the most. Thankfully we knew pretty early that he was going to pull through, and thanks to a mixture of Lana being so supportive, and Ratts keeping me updated, I've coped better than I have in previous incidents. I would even go as far as to say I'm on the mend.

Of course, with sobriety comes pain. Since coming off the drugs I have certainly been able to think clearer and start to enjoy life a little more, but fucking hell, the withdrawal is going to kill me. I mean, it would literally kill me if Lana wasn't giving me controlled doses. Even with the small bursts of morphine, my body temperature is very low, and I'm constantly shivering too, despite copious layers.

It will be nice to see Garrett. I owe him an apology from last year. When Draco was reaped, I immediately turned to Garrett and more-or-less demanded that he volunteer in place of him. It was selfish, and the more I think about it, the more unsure I am as to why I even let myself say those things. I practically told him that he was worth less to me than Draco was. How fucking cold-hearted of me. I wouldn't forgive me if I was him, but then I'm not him. He's Garrett, and he's naive and quick to forget. I just have to hope that he doesn't still see me as the monster I really am.

I'm convinced someone's tracking my movements within the hospital, someone who knows I'm a user. It's like there's someone in the corner of my eye, but every time I turn, they're gone, like they know what they're doing. I shake the thought as best I can, focusing on what's ahead and not what's behind.

I wait in line at reception, focusing on my breathing as patient after patient checks in. So many patients that I start to lose my patience. I exhale slowly as the minutes pass, not thinking about the trapped air in my diaphragm, nor the throbbing veins in my neck. I simply stare at the nape of the man in front of me, waiting, breathing, waiting, breathing. Eventually, I do reach the front of the line. I explain to the lady that I'm here to see a friend. She's polite, and hands me a laminated card with the word "Visitor" printed in a blue serif font, hole-punched and attached at length to a yellow rope. I slip it around my neck, slightly bemused by it - I've never done this before. At least, not in this way. Last time I was in hospital, I was fourteen, and my mother was dying. I wasn't a visitor to the hospital back then, not like this. I more or less spent the best half of a year at her bedside, trying to keep her alive. Then, when I couldn't keep her alive, I ran.

And I've never stopped running. Sometimes I think my heart's beating too fast for my own good. Sometimes I think that I should just stop, turn around, and go back. My father would take me back, even after all these years. I'm sure of it. But then, wouldn't that be too easy? I have people I need to fix, first.

It's not good to change who people are, then leave them behind.

With my special visitor's badge, and a slip of paper telling me about Garrett's injuries and treatments - as well as visiting hours and what ward he is on - I head down the hallway towards a different wing of the hospital.

I pass the dead and the dying, the moaning and the down-right pathetic. I see other drug users in far worse states than myself, and I see teenage medics doing their best to stay functional on broken sleep and crappy cups of coffee. I check no one is looking and swipe a bunch of half-dead flowers from a murky vase next to a dying woman's bed. She won't need them where she's going, and I'm not a believer in karma. Wherever I look, I see a thousand different parallel universes, with me in each of these hospital beds. Caught a severe stomach bug, sliced open an artery, abused too much morphine, shot, shot. Shot. Karma can't be real, else I'd be any of these people.

Ripred.

I find Garrett. He looks about as good as you can look after you've been shot. He has a drip being directed into his veins, reliving him of any pain. I flinch. His eyes look tired, and his mouth looks dry, but other than that (and the patch over open flesh stained red) he looks like Garrett.

"I heard you got shot. Way to go." I say loud enough that he could hear me even if he was in a coma, "I got you flowers, chief."

i'm cut open
like a donated body
and something strange comes out of me
when i'm staring at my bedroom wall
it pushes me to edge of cliff and urges me to fall
i'm a tightrope walker over miles of sea
this frame of mind i'm in will end up killing me